Possibilities
by wildemoon
Summary: AU version of "West Within" – Wesker brings Steve back, and he has plans for the boy. SLASH - Wesker/Steve


Author: Elizabeth Wilde

Title: Possibilities

Distribution: Anyone who has my fic, anyone who wants it and asks, .net/wilde [my site]

Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil: Code Veronica. I haven't even played it all the way through. Don't sue!

'Ship: Wesker/Steve

Classification:

Summary: AU version of "West Within" – Wesker brings Steve back, and he has plans for the boy.

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Resident Evil: Code Veronica. Yes, that's *all*

Feedback: to

Notes: I have never played the game all the way through. I have watched while my dear friend Feral played them. So... I'm not an expert. I just hated watching Steve die because I grew terribly attached to him, and I thought Wesker was a complete hottie. This whole thing is basically just an AU to "West Within," which is why parts and pieces of it are borrowed straight from that story.

First came the pain. Or, rather, Steve expected pain. It took several minutes for him to realize there was in reality no pain. It was a memory, phantom spasms that wracked his limbs just as the strange sensation that a hand was resting on his cheek amounted only to-no! It was real. The young man's eyes snapped open quickly. "Claire?" he gasped before the orbs managed to focus on reality and make out the shape hovering above him. A man. Tall. Built. Wearing shades. "Wh-who're you?" Steve demanded, finding within himself somewhere the strength to sit up.

"Albert Wesker." The man tilted his head as if examining the boy. Even through the glasses, the gaze seemed cold. "You're Steve Burnside. Now that the introductions are finished, how are you feeling?"

The question obviously did not stem from a desire to assess Steve's comfort or happiness. Rather, it seemed the easiest way to discover his status as one might ask for a report on a skyscraper being built. "I... uh... fine," Steve muttered, looking down. He was wearing nothing but a paper hospital gown, and on the pale, exposed skin he saw patches of scaly green. /Guess that means it wasn't a bad dream then,/ he thought with a shudder.

"I suppose we could have it removed," Wesker said, "but it would be a waste of funds. A few scales never hurt anyone."

In another situation, said by another person, the words might have carried comic affect. From Wesker, they seemed a bleak final judgment, and Steve found himself gazing down at the patches of mottled skin with the same indifference the other man might. It struck him as odd that he honestly didn't care much about the state of his skin. He felt strangely indifferent to it, to the fact that he still wore only the hospital gown. Looking up once more, he fixed Wesker with a cold stare. "Where am I? Why am I alive?"

"Not particularly important. You are alive and you're alive because of me. That's all you really need to know, kid," the man replied, muscular arms crossed over his chest as a bizarre half-smile twisted his lips. "We'll get you clothes, a room, then you can sleep. You look like shit."

Steve considered protesting, but he found no objection to the words. He needed clothes, needed a place to stay, and he was tired. /Dead tired,/ he thought, not particularly amused by the internal humor. As they walked, Steve took note of the layout and their route. The action was borne of nearly inbred habit, but he also had a feeling no one would be stopping by to lead him to the bathroom if he didn't find it on his own. They passed a couple of men, black clad like Wesker, who paid them no more mind than they might a speck of dirt beneath their boots. Antiseptically barren metallic walls surrounding them, the ceilings and floors matching so well that the base, flipped over, would have been identical.

"This is yours." The hallway was set a good quarter mile from the lab-like room where Steve first awoke and given the proliferation of similar doors, he assumed it was the equivalent of crew quarters.

Steve shrugged. "Okay."

"There's a shower inside. I suggest you use it. You were dead for a couple of days, after all," Wesker observed with another of his unsettling smiles before turning on his heel and walking back down the hall, calling over his shoulder, "Be up and dressed by 0500 tomorrow. We have work to do."

"You think the boy will be useful, then." Pulled back in a harsh ponytail, the man's white hair spoke of more than his thirty-eight years on Earth. As far as anyone knew, he had never sported a more youthful color. In truth, anything darker might have softened his harsh, ice blue eyes, and any sign of weakness in such a person was more than most of the officers could contemplate. Or wanted to.

Albert nodded, respectful but obviously not intimated by the man. "I do, sir. Aside from the sample of the T-Veronica virus we extracted from him, young Mr. Burnside has allowed me to prove that Substance X is effective even after the subject has been dead-though he was dead less than twenty-four hours before injection."

"Anything further might have rendered the body useless. Certainly, we can explore that in future testing," the man said dismissively. Obviously the success of the experiment satisfied him regardless of any questions left unanswered. More tests would have been ordered anyway. This merely meant they would be worth the money. "You always had my complete confidence, General."

The blond man inclined his head slightly, smiling. Few people engendered such trust from the mysterious, often-elusive Gavin Stipe. Even with such a distinction, Wesker knew only the man's name, the power he held, and that he was fabulously wealthy. Stipe alone provided the funding for all of the Organization's activities. "With your permission, then, I would like to have Burnside's assistance in my... personal project."

Not one to bother with such euphemisms, Stipe countered, "You mean, of course, your revenge against Chris Redfield. How exactly do you expect to convince the young man to go along? I believe the report I read stated he had some rather strong attachments to the man's sister Claire."

"He did, sir. In all likelihood, he still does. Actually, that figures rather prominently in my plans." Wesker steepled his fingers and leaned forward across the desk. "You see, I happen to know from personal experience that with great powers comes a distinctly lessened view of other people in general. With that lessened view come a more... how should I put it... a looser moral code. Things which once would have been unthinkable seem logical, a means to an end. Certainly some people are above this disdain-take yourself, sir. You may not be my physical superior, but I respect you. More than that, you can help me get what I want."

Stipe nodded impassively. He knew Wesker's attitudes well enough and was not in the least troubled by such comments. He never doubted the loyalty of his "subjects." After all, if one displeased him, a single word from his lips meant their death. Disloyalty was unheard of. "I believe I understand that much, General, but surely he would understand that any action against Chris is tantamount to one against Claire."

"Of course. I haven't reached the crux of the plan. Given that my last solo mission was... less than successful, I want backup. Steve. Steve wants Claire. I have her. Chris wants her as well. Chris is likely on his way as it is-I anticipated your acceptance, sir, and took the liberty of sending him the message," a brief nod from Stipe and he continued, "Chris arrives, I kill him with Steve's assistance, and as a... well, as a reward, the boy gets Claire. I don't really care what he does with her. She is bait to me and serves no purpose beyond the mission."

On the opposite side of the desk, Stipe began laughing, a sound so quiet it was bone-chilling. "Very good, General. I shall very much enjoy watching this little show of yours. Very much..."


End file.
